


The Trouble With Being Subtle.

by VictoryCandescence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bewilderment, Fluff, Humour, Ineptitude, Johnlock Challenges, Love, M/M, Post-it Notes, figuring it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:36:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoryCandescence/pseuds/VictoryCandescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock experiments, John misinterprets, and everyone else stands back and waits for the light to turn on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble With Being Subtle.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Johnlock Challenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/) prompt from [cypress-tree](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cypress_tree/pseuds/cypress_tree): “Flirting in public!” What fell out was apparently the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed.

 

 

John woke to a yellow Post-it note stuck to his cheek.

After rubbing the bleariness out of his eyes, he read Sherlock’s hasty, lopsided handwriting:

 _Highgate, ASAP - possible exhumation!_

 _-S_

 _B_

Of course, a good exhumation would finally shake Sherlock out of the black mood he’d been putting on display all week. The note stuck to John’s face was the first communication other than vague hums of disapproval he’d got out of Sherlock in days. John sighed as he threw back the covers and pushed himself up to sitting. He took another look at the note, and realised this time that though it was most certainly Sherlock’s writing (and who else would put an excited exclamation after anything having to do with digging up bodies?), he’d for some reason signed it “S.B.” John flicked on the light as he shuffled over to his wardrobe, and on further inspection found it probably wasn’t a B at all – it was too squiggly a shape to be any proper letter. Probably Sherlock testing the pen at the bottom of the note or something, thought John, and hoped it wasn’t some clever code he was supposed to work out.

Once dressed he shoved the note in his pocket, grabbed his coat and bounded down the stairs. He met Mrs Hudson coming in as he was going out.

“You got his note, I see,” she said with a knowing smile.

“Right in one, Mrs H,” he said, giving her a quick peck as both hello and goodbye. “Have to run, though. God knows what he’s got up to, even this early.”

“Oh dear. Be careful, the both of you.”

“I do try,” said John, and waved as he shut the door and ran up the block to hail a cab to the cemetery.

\---

“It’s the necklace!” Sherlock growled.

“Excuse you, who is the forensics expert here?” Anderson sneered.

“‘Expert’ isn’t really a word I think you’ve been particularly keen on earning in regards to forensic work. Idiocy on the other hand –”

John could already hear the bickering as he picked his way around headstones and uneven clumps of grass toward the cordoned off area where assorted Met officers, excavation crew and the cemetery groundskeeper mulled around a mound of freshly dug-out earth. A dirt-caked, vacant casket was set beside the hole, making the eeriness of the scene complete. The body was already bagged on a gurney next to it, being looked over by investigators and coroners.

“–Obviously the ring!” Anderson continued, his pique rising. “She’d have touched – ugh, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“Oh no, do go on! I was –” but as soon as Sherlock caught sight of John ducking under the tape after greeting Greg and Sally Donovan he’d clamped his mouth shut in the middle of his riposte.

“Perhaps it was the ring,” John heard him say in a much calmer register.

“What?” Anderson was nonplussed at the sudden shift of Sherlock’s stance, both argumentatively and physically as he whirled around to face John, effectively abandoning the exchange.

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said, with such grace that it seemed unsettling. He was accustomed to showing up at a crime scene and being met with a hundred commands or at least a steady stream of invective about the incompetence of the investigative team. In fact, now that he thought of it, Sherlock didn’t even oust him out of bed to get here before they broke ground, as he usually would have. This was a definite change, and John was wary of what it meant.

“Oh I get a good morning, do I?” he said.

“Yes.” Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back and shifting from foot to foot.

“Got your note,” John said, when he realised no further explanation was forthcoming. “What’s the case today?”

“A year ago, Mrs. Brighton was found murdered, and one of her two children was held responsible. New speculation has come to light that we may have arrested the wrong twin.” He waved a hand dismissively at the scene. “I’ll only need to take a visit to the lab and run a simple test to prove it. The combination of your shirt and jumper’s colours go well together, and compliment the undertones of your skin.”

John’s eyebrows fell together in confusion as he processed the abrupt subject change in Sherlock’s customary rapid speech. “Sorry – what was that last part?”

“You seem fond of it. It’s – good.”

“Thanks,” John said slowly. “I think.”

Sherlock gave him a nod and a small, lopsided smile. John returned it tentatively. Then Sherlock turned on his heel, pulled out his notebook and wrote something down as he walked back around the dirt mound to examine the casket and body again.

John stood where he was for a moment, feeling thoroughly bewildered. He looked down at his clothes, wondering if there was something he was missing.

“Is he all right?” asked Greg, coming up beside him. John shook it off and turned to him, shrugging.

“Against what measure?” John answered. “He hasn’t spoken two words to me all week, and as soon as he sees me this morning, he’s all sunshine and roses. For him, anyway.”

“That’s what I meant,” said Greg, and bless him, John thought, he actually looked gravely concerned. “He was his regular old dour self until you showed up. I just – you don’t think he’s–”

“No,” said John quickly, before it even needed to be said. “Not at all. Hasn’t even been smoking, not for months now.”

“Huh.” Greg shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and stuck his lip out thoughtfully. “Still weird, though.”

“He’s probably just happy about getting to dig up dead bodies. That’s him all over, you know that.”

“I most certainly do,” said Greg, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock appraisingly and crossing his arms. John would have given Greg a hundred quid to know what he was thinking at that moment. But before he could venture to ask –

“John!” Sherlock was peeking into the unzipped body bag like it contained a Christmas present. He raised a black-gloved hand in beckon. “I need you to list possible abrasions and articles of jewelry!” His head disappeared back inside it before popping out again for him to add, “Please!”

“‘Please?’” mouthed Greg incredulously as John made his way over to the body. John could only give a hapless shrug in reply.

\---

The strangeness only continued when they reached the lab at Bart’s.  


“Is there something on my face?” John asked.

Sherlock looked back down at the evidence bags he was shuffling through.

“No.”

“You were staring like I did have.” John went over to a glass-front cabinet and tried to examine his reflection.

“No I wasn’t,” insisted Sherlock.

“Molly?” John called. Molly swiveled her chair around the corner, pulling up her protective goggles. “Have I got something on me?”

She looked him over. “Nope. Spiffy as always,” she said with a smile.

“Thanks,” he said. He went over and sat down on a chair near her, then nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “This one’s been giving me the laser eyes since we got here. I was thinking he was having a laugh, but I suppose not.”

They both glanced over at him. Sherlock stayed silent, ignoring them both in favour of scratching something out in his notebook. When John looked back, Molly was already looking at him again. She sighed and patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said.

“I suppose I’ll have to,” John agreed.

A few minutes later, two students came into the lab to collect a few supplies. One was tall and ginger, the other a particularly callipygian blonde. Molly had readjusted her goggles and went back to the work on her bench, so John allowed himself to take a discreet appreciative look as the ladies reached up on the high shelves to grab manuals and tubes of litmus strips.

“John,” said Sherlock.

“Hm?”

“Bakery string, John!” He moved around the worktop so that he was standing directly in John’s line of sight, and so close that John had to push his chair back a few centimetres. John supposed his idle admiration of the pretty grad students was through. “The fibres I found caught in the catch of the necklace! I was right. It _was_ the daughter, not the son,” he said triumphantly. “Now come on! I don’t want to wait another moment to see the look on Anderson’s face when I tell Lestrade and Donovan about this.”

With that, he wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders and firmly pressed him bodily toward the door.

 “All right, all right! You don’t have to push me.” Sherlock eased the pressure, but left his arm draped where it was. The two pretty students had looked up from their binders at Sherlock’s excited intonations, and were now openly smirking at him being herded by Sherlock.

Molly was looking after them as well. John waved a quick goodbye before being steered out of the room, the door slamming shut behind them. All the way back down the hall and out, John wished the goggles weren’t obscuring so much of her face, because the smile she was trying to keep from twisting on her lips seemed to convey something significant.

\---

After bursting into Lestrade’s office at the NSY like a hurricane of derision and self-righteousness, Sherlock had secured the imminent arrest of the correct perpetrator and left John in his wake to make the appropriate apologies.  


“You’ve got it really bad, don’t you,” Sally said to him, as John rushed to put his coat back on after Sherlock had decided he was through.

“Well, it’s not all _that_ terrible,” said John defensively.

“Come _on,_ John!” Sherlock shouted impatiently from near the lifts, still flushed with the smug energy he always had after a successfully solved case. “We haven’t eaten a thing all day and you’ll be making noise about wanting dinner soon enough. I know a place.”

“Most days,” John amended, and Sally just crossed her arms and shook her head.

“You picked the wrong hobby, Dr. Watson,” she said.

“Don’t really think it’s a hobby at this point.”

“You’re right. Looks serious enough to me. And if anyone can handle that kind of trouble, it’s you.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” said John. He wanted to be indignant, but the grin she wore as she turned and walked back down the hallway made him feel as if he was on uneven ground.

\---

Between Sally Donovan’s cryptic comments and Sherlock’s mad rushing about, John’s annoyance was at a simmer, and he knew Sherlock could tell. So just as John was gearing up to scold him, he felt his mobile buzz.  


 ** _If you make any terrible pun about ‘unravelling the mystery’ when you write up this case, I will make use of the multi-coloured smoke bombs I ordered from America inside your bedroom. -S_**

Well, that solves the mystery of the box that came last week postmarked from Alabama. John sighed. He knew this was Sherlock trying to allay the rise of his frustration, and damn it all, he was letting him, wasn’t he. Resigned, he tapped out a response.

 ** _I will try to manfully resist. Can’t promise anything. I have a literary reputation to uphold, you know. -J_**

John heard Sherlock give a short hum of amusement when he read it. To John’s surprise, Sherlock continued writing another message.

 ** _Cabbie’s jacket is on inside out. -S_**

John peeked through the plexiglass partition and noticed that it was. All the seams of his cuffs were exposed, and the label was clearly visible at the back of his neck.

 ** _So it is. And I suppose you know why. -J_**

 ** _Of course. -S_**

But John noticed that Sherlock had slipped his phone into his pocket and resumed looking moodily out the window. The git. John sighed.

 ** _Well? Don’t just leave me in suspense. I know you want to show off. -J_**

Sherlock’s thumbs flew over the screen of his mobile.

 ** _He’s having a torrid affair with another cabbie. Using the company car, in fact. NOT this one, before you have a fit. It’s missing the distinct odour of afternoon dalliance. -S_**

John ran a hand over his face when he finished reading that.

 ** _That’s somehow incredibly disturbing and yet at the same time immensely impressive. -J_**

 ** _As always? -S_**

John smiled, and this time he let Sherlock see.

 ** _As always. -J_**

 _ **: ) -S**_

 ** _...Is that a smiley face? -J_**

But Sherlock said nor typed no more, his attentions again on the blur of passing cars and people out the window. John let his smile bloom into a laugh. He saw the twist of Sherlock’s lips that told him he was trying to lock down on a smile of his own. He opened his notebook and ticked another something off, then slipped it quickly back into his pocket.

In a few more minutes, they arrived at the restaurant, and John got out to pay.

“All set mate,” the cabbie said. As he handed John his change, he closed his clammy hand tight around John’s and gave him a lecherous wink.

John grimaced, but before he could form a word, he felt Sherlock’s arm curl around his own and pull him into his warm side possessively.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said in one of his borrowed voices, and managed to make it sound like _fuck off, he’s mine._ “Love your jacket, by the way.” The cabbie looked down and realised, releasing John’s hand with an embarrassed frown. Without another word, he sped off.

“Er, thanks,” John said. “You conveniently forgot to mention that his afternoon dalliance was a man.”

“It wasn’t. He’s a sex addict; he’ll take it from whoever wants to give it. But he’s dreaming if he thinks a man like you would give him the time of day.”

“Ah. Right.” John’s face felt suddenly warm. He let Sherlock pluck the notes from his hand and watched as he riffled through them, picking out and crumpling up a slip of paper with the cabbie’s number on it.

“Hopefully I’m right in assuming you don’t want this,” he said, holding it up. John nodded vigorously and Sherlock tossed the little wad over his shoulder. They walked down the busy pavement to the entrance of the restaurant.

“Um, Sherlock?” John said, when they came to the door. “You can let go of my arm now.”

\---

When they were seated, Sherlock nudged his hand over on the table until it was half-covering John’s. He looked down at it over the top of his menu, then up at Sherlock.  


“D’you need something?” John asked, withdrawing his hand carefully.

Sherlock’s fingers twitched and he flicked his eyes up from the menu.

“No.”

A few minutes later, John felt a knobby knee pressing against his own beneath the small table. John shifted his seat a bit further to the left. Sherlock was silent until they ordered, and remained silent afterwards. The only sound he was making was a dull tapping as he twiddled his spoon against the back of his hand. John wondered if Sherlock had secretly taken up smoking again; he hadn’t seen him full of so much nervous energy since the last time he was going through nicotine withdrawals. It would perhaps even explain the odd behaviour he’d been displaying all day.

“Are you feeling well?” John asked.

Sherlock merely hummed distractedly, staring down at the spoon in his fingers. John’s shoulders sunk. It was going to be another thinking dinner, then, where John was reduced to just another component of the place settings.

When their food came, Sherlock consulted his notebook again, scribbled something down, and slipped it back in his pocket. Only then did he suddenly speak again.

“How was your day?”

John blinked.

“You were with me for almost the entirety of it,” John answered, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced quickly sideways, then back before continuing. “Yes, of course. Obviously. But how was it from your perspective?”

John was still feeling a bit miffed at being treated like a piece of stemware. “As it always is. You order me around and run ahead and I catch up and apologise for you being rude. You talk nonsense at me, and then you ignore me.” John sighed, sitting back further in his seat. “It’s been a long day that has been mostly me being confused and rushing like a madman after you. We haven’t stopped until now. Honestly, I’m a bit knackered.”

Sherlock’s eyes had gone wide, and he suddenly looked paler than usual – John couldn’t tell if it was only the dim lighting of the restaurant. He almost looked, well, stricken was the word that came to mind. But just as fast as John noticed it, Sherlock’s face closed itself to him again as he gave a dismissive shake of his head.

“Do you always feel like that, then? When you’re with me?”

 _Oh fuck, I think I might’ve actually upset him,_ thought John. He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then looked up at Sherlock again with a small conciliatory smile.

“Not always. I’m sorry. It’s just you’ve been acting really strange all day and it’s put me off.”

“No I haven’t,” said Sherlock.

“Yes, you have! You’ve been touching me and giving me weird compliments and staring at me like –”

When John halted his speech, Sherlock’s mouth had pressed itself into a thin line, and his back had gone rigid.

“You’re experimenting on me again, aren’t you.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed a bit, but he still looked rather nervous for a man who usually had such a tight hold on the way he displayed his emotions.

“Well, yes. It’s an experiment of sorts, but –”

That was all John wanted to hear. Perhaps it was because he was tired of being led around or being bewildered all day, but his anger suddenly bubbled up then, and his voice dropped down until it was low and dangerous.

“What have I told you about that?” John rubbed a hand over his forehead. “What have you been taking notes about all day? Let me see your notebook.”

John held out his hand for it. But Sherlock pressed himself away, against the back of his chair, a hand over the place inside his jacket where it was hidden.

“I – can’t show you. But please, listen –”

“Can’t show me?” John let out a laugh; it wasn’t a pleasant sound at all as it had been before. “No. You know what? I’m not going to listen to you explain your way out of this one again. It’s the _one_ request I’ve made of you after indulging countless ridiculous requests of yours. I am not here for you to experiment on, Sherlock, and if you can’t respect that, then –”

“Then what?” Sherlock countered, and John thought he looked fairly terrified.

“I don’t know. But it’s not good.”

John got up from the table, gathered up his coat and threw some money down amongst the plates. He weaved through the tables and out the door as fast as he could without upsetting anyone’s plates or glasses.

He made it about half a block before he heard Sherlock calling after him.

“John? John!” Sherlock’s bloody long legs carried him all the way down the pavement in what seemed like two seconds.

“I’m not interested in whatever sodding act you plan on performing to avoid apologising,” John said without stopping in his march away or turning around.

“That’s just it! I could have!” said Sherlock, strangely and suddenly forceful, and it made John stop and turn around in spite of himself. “If that’s all you expected of me,” Sherlock continued, slightly calmer but no less ardent, “I could have put on an act. I could have looked you up and down, ran my eyes along the line of your body.” Sherlock took three steps forward, and began doing just that. John was often exposed to Sherlock’s special brand of scrutiny, but never like _this._ It was a far cry from the insincere apology John had been expecting, and he was completely thrown. Nevertheless, he found himself rooted to the spot.

“I could have crowded your space,” Sherlock said, and his voice became a deep, sultry rumble that cradled itself in John’s ear. “I could have made sure you felt the heat of my body, my breath against the side of your neck.” John stiffened as Sherlock dipped his head down, felt the puff of warm breath on his skin.

“I could have made you _shiver,_ ” Sherlock purred, looking deep into John’s eyes. “Made your pupils dilate, your pulse race.” Long fingers encircled John’s wrist, nudging up under the cuff of his jacket, and the contact felt like a spark. Sherlock’s face loomed close, so close that if John wanted he could press up on the balls of his feet and their mouths would just touch –

God help him, at that moment he actually did shiver.

But then Sherlock pulled away. Cold air filled the place Sherlock vacated, and John came crashing down from wherever he’d been put by Sherlock’s words and looks and touches. People walked past, cars and buses sped by, shouting issued from the pub across the way.

“But it wouldn’t have been me,” Sherlock said, and his voice was no longer made of velvet, but of glass, thin and weak and on the verge of cracking. “You deserve, above all else, sincerity. I may have failed at making you understand, but please know that it was the truth.”

Sherlock withdrew his notebook from his inner pocket and pressed it into John’s hands. With that, he turned with a swoosh of his coat, and was off down the pavement and around the corner before John could even gather up his thoughts.

What the _hell_ had just happened?

He looked at the notebook in his hands. The bookmark was slotted into the middle, and so John flipped it open to the page it held. There, in Sherlock’s familiar scrawly hand, was a list.

  1.  ~~Love note.~~
  2. ~~Be polite.~~
  3. ~~Give compliments.~~
  4. ~~Significant glances.~~
  5. ~~Impress him.~~
  6. ~~Make him laugh.~~
  7. ~~Tactile connection.~~
  8. ~~Ask how his day was.~~



John put his hand in his pocket and withdrew the note from this morning. He stared at the wonky little shape below the message.

“I’m an idiot,” he said to himself, and set off at a run toward Baker Street, where he hoped Sherlock had retreated.

\---

To John’s immense relief, Sherlock had indeed decided to spend his misery curled in upon himself in his chair. The sitting room was dark, the only light coming from the small one above the sink in the kitchen. John took a few steps into the room, slipping off his jacket and throwing it haphazardly across the arm of the couch. Sherlock didn’t move. His coat was in a puddle at the foot of his chair, and though he hadn’t removed any other clothing, he was barefoot, his legs drawn up. John couldn’t see his face, as he had it pressed to his knees.  


“It was a heart,” said John. The shadows felt close, made his words quiet and clear.

“What?”

“On the note you left me this morning.” He still held the little yellow slip of paper lightly between his fingers like a talisman.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just flexed his fingers where they rested in the curly mess of his hair.

“You – you were flirting with me.”

“Congratulations,” said Sherlock bitterly. “For a while I thought your brain had finally given up and atrophied of disuse.”

“Well I guess I didn’t realise because I guess I’ve never seen you be so spectacularly shite at anything before,” John shot back.

Sherlock lifted his head only long enough to shoot John an acidic glare, then dropped it back down again. John looked at the sharp peaks of Sherlock’s scapulae, the long fingers knotted into dark hair, the bend of his spine. How compact Sherlock could make himself for such a tall man used to taking up so much room. John sat down in his chair across from him. ** **  
****

“I guess you’re right, as you usually are, in a way. My brain doesn’t work the same way yours does. Perhaps you’re a little too subtle for me. You know me by now, Sherlock. Sometimes you have to hit me over the head with it.”

“Most of the time, more like,” Sherlock mumbled, still not raising his head. John smiled though, relieved that he was succeeding in pulling Sherlock out of his agitation.

“The thing is, you’ve _always_ been charming, without even meaning to be. You know I’ve thought that from the moment we met. I guess I was ignoring the obvious answer because I didn’t want to seem like even more of a fool than usual if I was wrong.”

“Don’t say that,” said Sherlock, and finally raised his head. “You may not be a genius, but you are certainly no fool.”

Sherlock’s eyes were shiny and wide and pale in the dim light. For the first time all day, John finally felt like he was on the right page.

“I just...I wanted to go about it the proper way,” Sherlock continued. “I do know you, and I know you wouldn’t appreciate being manipulated, and I didn’t want to make any move that could be construed as such.” 

“That was very – good of you, Sherlock,” said John, feeling flattered and a bit incredulous. “I do appreciate that, yes. But you never had to do any of that stuff on your list.” ** **  
****

Sherlock wrinkled up the bridge of his nose. “Of course I did. How else could I have let you know?”

“You could have just _told_ me, flat out. Like anything else.”

“Well, that’s rather inelegant.” 

“I’m not really one for elegance, if you’ve noticed. And anyway that’s what always gets us into trouble isn’t it? Not being straightforward with each other.” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I just thought –” 

“Sherlock,” said John, reaching across and wrapping both his steady hands around Sherlock’s wrists. “Sometimes you think too much.” 

“There is no such thing,” said Sherlock, but his voice was rather unsteady, and his pulse was quick beneath John’s fingers. He looked as if he couldn’t decide if he’d rather look in John’s eyes or at his lips. 

So John made a decision for him. 

He let go of one wrist and brought his fingers to Sherlock’s jaw. He guided him close and closed his eyes, pressing his lips softly against Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock startled slightly and pulled his head back just enough that he could look John in the eye. 

“I’d extrapolated at least seven more steps between hand-holding and kissing,” Sherlock said. 

“I’m sorry to tell you, Sherlock, but your method is rubbish.” 

“Perhaps a new approach, then?” said Sherlock, and this time it was he who leaned in. John remained very still, and let Sherlock press his lips against the corner of his mouth, his jawline, his chin. 

“Is this all right?” he heard Sherlock ask quietly next to his ear, his cheek pressed against John’s. “Am I doing this correctly?” 

“The only way you could get it wrong right now,” John said, more breathily than he’d intended, “Is if you stopped.”  
He felt Sherlock’s smile against his skin, and then Sherlock carried on.

\---

Later, they found themselves wrapped together on the couch, lips swollen and tingly, necks hot and red from the drag of stubble and lapping of tongues, clothing rumpled and hair a mess.  


John felt like he was fifteen again. It was glorious.

He could feel Sherlock still running his fingertips over the plane of his arm where it curled and rested lightly upon Sherlock’s back. His face was pressed against John’s chest; it was warm through the fabric of his shirt, and the steady rhythm of his breathing and the weight of him sprawled across John’s legs and middle was comfortable and reassuring. John’s other hand was brushing through Sherlock’s curls, letting the soft tendrils slip through his fingers. Outside London bustled; sirens bleated and buses trundled. But inside 221B it was nothing but John and Sherlock, the sound of their soft breath, of the rustle of cloth when they shifted against each other, of their hearts beating, each in time with the other.

“I have a question,” John said after a while. “Why did you decide to try flirting with me on a day you knew we wouldn’t have a moment alone? I mean we do live together. You could have taken any opportunity between breakfast and bedtime, when it was just us.” 

Sherlock was silent, but his hand had stopped moving, so John knew he was thinking of the best way to answer. ** **  
****

“I suppose once I came to the conclusion, I wanted to lay claim to you, for lack of a better set of words. I – I rather like the notion of people knowing that I love you.”

John felt a thrill of warmth burst inside him. 

“Do you?” he asked. Sherlock pushed himself up on his arms so that he could look John in the eye. 

“Love you? Yes.” Sherlock’s words were as confident as if he were explaining how a crime was committed, and John heaved a sigh of relief at the familiar tone. “Getting you to realise that was the point of this unfortunately fruitless exercise. Does it disturb you?” 

“No,” said John, a little taken aback. “Why would you think that?”

Sherlock sat back against the opposite end of the couch, and John shifted to a sitting position. 

“Most people tend to delight in their hatred of me,” said Sherlock plainly. “They always have. So it’s by no means a stretch to think I’m not eligible for being loved by anyone. Especially you. It’s easy to love you. People flirt with you all the time when we’re out. I would understand if you want to keep this a secret.” Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “Or end it altogether, right now. It was fulfilling to have finally got to kiss you, but if that’s all the affection you wish to expend on me, I would understand if–” 

“You’re an idiot,” said John, which was not at all what Sherlock was expecting by the way he snapped his head up. John shook his head and reached out his palms. Sherlock looked at them, then tentatively placed his hands in John’s. John took hold of them and brought each one in turn to his mouth to press a kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles. Then he held them between his own, pressed together as Sherlock usually laid them when he was in thought. John liked the way Sherlock’s hands fit inside his own; even though they were so much larger it still felt as if he were protecting them. 

“Let’s be clear here, because the time for subtlety and subterfuge ends now,” he said, and Sherlock heard the Captain in his voice by the way he sat up just a bit straighter. “This is not pity, or an experiment, or anything of the sort. This is me telling you I love you too, you arse. And no one’s hiding it under the cushions. Understood?” 

Sherlock answered him with a succinct nod. 

“I just wanted to make sure you knew that I’m not, as you’ve seen, very skilled at this sort of thing.” 

“Well I am,” he answered. “And the parts we don’t know we’ll solve together, same as anything else.” 

Sherlock turned his face away, failing completely to hide the smile that curled there. His cheeks had turned a lovely shade of pink, and John didn’t think he could have torn his eyes away from him if a bomb went off in the middle of the road outside. He wondered if all of Sherlock’s skin would flush like that, all the different ways he could make the blood rise to the surface of his skin when he applied his hands, and mouth and tongue... 

“There are a few other things I’ve been curious about learning firsthand,” said Sherlock, reading John’s mind in the way only he could. He reached up and began to undo the buttons of John’s shirt. 

John decided then that this was one experiment he most certainly could abide.

\---

The next day, Sherlock woke up with a green Post-it note stuck to his forehead.  


 _By the way, this is how you draw a heart:_

♡

 _I suggest you practice. The flirting shouldn’t end_

 _just because you know I’m a sure thing now._

 _-J_


End file.
